Three Words
by KPtheMoviesaholic
Summary: Random romantic fluff. When a piece of paper turns Chuck and Blair's life upside down. ChuckxBlair.
1. Reunion

I've been shocked before in my life.

Devastated. Felt the breath being drowned out of me, even. (Someone named **S** and an ex-object of attraction **N**, but let's not go into that.)

But never this shocked.

Just reading the paper in front of me gives me the creeps. Goosebumps.

How could Mom agree to this?

Worst, how would _I _do this?

Let me explain: When my lawyer called me up in the morning to meet him at the agency with Mom, I thought it'd be something about the never-ending divorce conflict, but, like the least probable thing that could happen, walked in Mr. C. Bass, settling down on the opposite of our side of the table, my lawyer in the middle.

All right, no panic, no calm. I could do this. It's been _years_ since we—you still fancy bondage with him?—last talked.

Awkward silence. Eyes staring at each other.

Chuck's wearing his normal clothes today, the period of mourning for his father over, his signature monogramned CB scarf resting snugly around his neck, and a stylish—why am I even complimenting him?—black hat on, to top it all, even though it's summer.

Looks can change. People never will.

Not with Chuck. His looks never, sigh, change, nor does he .

Breaks all the rules.

"So," begins Chuck—must not look at him, must _not _look—"Let's get the thing finito. I've got a lot to do."

Forgetting the childishness, I roll my eyes at him. Sure, a lot (of girls) to meet. What's the Waldorf clan got to do with him, anyway?

Then the lawyer hands me _the_ paper, Mom giving a too-obvious, strange nod of encouragement.

Painlessly short as possible: it's the late Bart Bass's last will and testament. Poor Bartholomew has passed away a year ago—if termed accordingly to fashion trends, _so_ last season—and Gossip Girl had the rumors going on that Chuck broke down, locked himself up in the room, crying.

It was nearly true, close, but not exact. Thanks to the huge circle of Upper East Siders we have here, I, on a strict period of Chuck avoidance, did not have to get in touch with the Unlucky Bass myself, Serena, Nate, and everyone else tapping in to see if he was fine.

So fine is he this morning to snatch me—indirectly—from my appointment with the personal shopper at Prada's. I have better things to do on a New York summer morning, you know.

The lawyer's voice—and Chuck's calculating eyes—brought me back to reality.

"It's specified," the lawyer says, "That the Waldorf and Bass empires would have to be united for Mr. Bass here," pans his hand at Chuck, "To inherit the fortune."

WHAT?

But I might have said that a little bit too loud, for Chuck—damn him. Too bad I can't…never mind—to lean closer to my face, whispering, "If you didn't get that, babe. He means, in simple and plain English, that you must marry me."

Marry _him?_

In your dreams, chucker-boy.

The thought of Blair _Bass_ makes me shudder. With disgust.

Even the initials match…

BB = Ew…

Why, why, _why?_

I start in on Mom, turning to her in an urgent tone, at a corner of my eye sighting Chuck whistle as if he has no care left in the world. "How could you do this? You knew…" She never knows a thing, technically, just getting and keeping me in an inner circle is her top wish.

"It was an opportune moment, honey," she squeezes my hand—not a comforting, but more like a cajoling move—"And it's for the better. Where's all the wealth going? In our families!"

It hurt to watch her brown orbs, so similar to mine, danced with excitement and security, when their replicas are the exact opposite.

She lowers her voice, whispering in my ear, Chuck watching on the sly. "Since you've let that Nate boy go…"

Nonsense.

It's just not coming true in a 21st century world. Hello, this is _Upper East Side_, not some soap opera show!

But the scene is unraveling before my eyes.

Chuck sits up, smiling my Mom's smile. "So what'd ya say? Marry me?"

That's the most un-romantic wedding proposal I have ever heard in my entire life.

He's so gotten over his father's death he has the Chuck mood going. Again.

Nope, doesn't work on me anymore.

And who has ever been proposed—if you could even called it that—in front of _a lawyer?_

Beside me, Mom repeats her fake encouraging nodding routine, which is getting more annoying by the minute.

"What's Mr. Bass's reason for doing this, anyway?" I blurt out in an incredulous voice, hands firmly on my lap.

For a moment, Chuck seems to say something, but stops against his will, holding back.

"Well," I decide, "If no one has the answer for me, then I'm not doing it. Not now. Not ever. Not in my life."

Paper record? Changing last names? Throwing our Waldorf fortune into Chuck Bass's hands?

No way.

After a long pause, Chuck gives a small nod to both Mom and me, "Mrs. Waldorf, Blair," he says, voice no longer cheery but deeply serious, "I'll have to go now. Blair might need some time to think alone, I guess. See you around."

But it's his last sentence that bothers me.

"It's not over, B," he winks, before backing out.

'Over's' not the word, Chuck.

If you want to play it this way, the game hasn't even begun.

**A/N: Let me know what you think.**

**Thanking you for everything :)**

**Your ever humble fanfic writer.**

**PS: If Bart seems unreasonable to pair Chuck with Blair, the reason will sort itself out. Later on in the story :).**


	2. Reasons

**A/N: I love spacing—it's an addiction! **

I know I may not have deserved Blair.

Not to the least, not to the standards of the guy I have been, or the guy I am now.

Chasing after girls. Wanting, longing for, tempted by, and thinking of them as long as I could remember. Being unembarassable.

But I'm not doing this marriage thing for love. I seriously am not.

It's for the money. For the Bass fortune.

Dad could have let me know moments before he's…gone…

That sneaky old man, planning the Waldorf-Bass reunion all along.

I know we've had deep connections. I know we've been family friends, connected through various relatives for generations, but is marriage necessary?

I can't really stand Blair at this point.

Girls whose faces and names I barely can recall, countless rooms and countless nights, even more countless bottles of alcohol I'd injected into my blood passed, I was about through with forgetting her, and, thanks again to Dad, _your_ will's opening date came in, at _your _preferred time of about a year after _your_ death.

But why?

Why Blair? There's an awful lot of wealthy heiresses to choose from, or, if you really have no choice, the ever popular, one and only Serena van der Woodsen.

I wanted her. I really did. Just because she was a passing craze. Not before Blair, however.

That day in the lawyer's, she was wearing that hot, simple black sleeveless dress, her thick, brown hair in curls, her red hairband holding them up, and her face as stern, cold, even, as ever.

Man, do I miss kissing those red, red lips.

The cheery act was so much of a mask. I just wanted to get right down on my knees and beg, to get this over with, to, well, get the money and go our separate ways.

Like, ever heard of a flash divorce?

But life in Upper East Side is a circle. Not one of us can function without an off switch on the other end of the circuit. It's all about dependence and connections, baby.

Which is why, at this moment, I'm standing outside the Waldorf mansion, hands hidden in my trousers' pockets, the Scarf intact, wrestling with my mind about Blair, and about to knock on the door.

* * *

Marriage. Wedding. Rings.

_Of course_ I have thought about them. Fantasized, filming and refilming shots of a dream wedding in my mind.

Only with someone different.

Someone whose last name is definitely not Bass.

Speaking of the Devil…

Esther has just poked her head into my bedroom, calling, "Miss Blair," Uh-oh. "Mr. Bass is here to see you."

My eyebrows rose automatically. That guy, has he ever given up on anything?

Not Chuck. I should have known better. After all, I've known him since we could practically _speak. _

Not a thing I'd particularly wish to do with him right now.

"Do you mean Chuck…is here to see me?" Time-stalling (and an innocent tone) are essential. _I'm_ going through the back door.

Now Esther's eyebrows imitate what mine did seconds ago. "Why, Miss Blair, it _is_ Chuck Bass…because…you know…"

I wave my hands at her, pretending—I didn't take film in senior year at Constance for nothing!—to be uninterested. Esther looks genuinely confused.

Excellent, first part of the Chuck escape plan: Lying, done.

"Never mind. Let him in, whoever he claims to be." I slide down from bed, grabbing some clothes randomly. "Give me a few minutes to prepare. I'll be right out."

At my last sentence, Esther leaves, closing the door with an understanding nod.

Phew.

I was doing _fine _without him in my life. I was _planning_ another benefit before his arrival rudely interrupted me, I tell myself, frustrated, while opening the back door with my personal key.

"That's it. Done," I say, putting a lock on the secret back door, back turned to the tranquil New York view.

"Tell me, do you always talk to yourself, Blair?" asks a deep voice innocently.

_Damn._

It _is_ Chuck Bass.

He shakes his head. "Pity, pity, Blair. Too bad I know all your tricks."

"What are _you_ doing here?" I glare at him, keeping my distance, but Chuck gives his signature smirk, circling around me in a hypnotizing manner, the same trick, the same binding spell he'd perfected over the years to get lucky with girls like little Jenny.

Well, too bad I know all your tricks, Chuck.

His eyes fix on mine. "Is it wrong to visit a long-time friend, may I ask?"

"It is wrong," I say, holding my breath, "Because you're not welcomed here."

"Never?" God, his tone is so…irritating.

"I should change my question," I tell him in a flat voice, "_Why_ are you here?"

He simply chuckles. "To talk to you? We had a rather nice, short conversation the last time we met."

Yeah, right. So much for sarcasm.

"I don't want to talk."

He sighs.

"About anything concerning you," I say, "We're over. It's been over. And you know, like I know, that you can't do this…this marriage thing."

"But I can—"

"You can't. You've never really loved me, have you? A guy like you, Chuck, you're just doing it for the money."

Bang. I hit right home. For a split second, his confident mood is broken. Chuck looks openly hurt.

"Can't we get this over with?" he changes the topic suddenly in a tired tone. "Look, I miss you. I _have_."

"And missing me means spending your time with a bunch of other girls?" I turn my back to him, walking away. "Sure."

From behind, he takes ahold of my wrist, I struggling. "I've been distracted. I knew—I…" he says, his voice tangled up.

"I could never understand you, Chuck, and I never will."

"Blair," his grip loosens, "I love you."

I stop walking abruptly, turning to face him again. "It's too late to say that now."

"But—"

"Then show me. That you're not doing this for the money. I can give you all the money I have, Chuck, but it's the marriage. I don't…want to marry someone who…" I pause, keeping the sentence hanged in the air, Chuck standing still in silence.

"And prove it. Prove that you really mean the three words you said."

**A/N: Oh My God. Big drama Bomb there. **

**Let's see what's happenin' next!**

**Thank you's, thank you's, and thank you's.**

**Your ever humble fanfic writer :) **


	3. Rematch

**A/N: I am indebted to N. I wouldn't be able to write this without her. And all her great ideas lol. **

To say that the vision before me is un-irresistible would be a lie.

And if you do know me, yes, it _is_ a girl.

A five four, model thin brunette with clear blue eyes, dressed in fashionable clothes—and, is that a Burberry hat?—is sitting on my couch. In my suite, to be exact.

Well, look what the cat dragged in.

"Monsieur Bass?" she starts to get up as soon as I enter, her tone professionally confident.

And _accented_. Ooh la la.

Whirling around mid-whistle while strolling into the room, I take her offered hand, kissing it, "Who let you in, chéri?"

She smiles, a model smile lovely and attractive close to that of Serena's electrifying one. "I need to see you, for business."

Business. Ah. Then we can move to something more…profitable later, perhaps.

If I weren't so—ahem—committed, that juicy French lips would be kissed in—

Another vision, this one of Blair, flows back to mind.

"_Prove? I…" Haven't all I done for her been enough? "What do you want me to do, then?" I have to ask her this. I really do. I'm getting a tad bit annoyed. Yes, for love. (Isn't that ironic?) Like what, go into rehab and satisfy Queen B? "Actions speak louder than words." _

_That sentence seems to get to her the way she did me with the proving. Blair starts biting her lips—a noticeably clear sign, whenever she has scheming plan in mind. "How about you and I make another bet?"_

_Another bet? My expertise, Waldorf. (Not to mention the swe-et sound of 'you and I' in her question)_

"_Why not?" I give her my best grin. "Bring it on."_

"_If," our chocolate eyes meet each other, "You can be with me, and only me—and that means no seeing other girls—"_

_That's a tough one. Not to mention potentially dangerous. Aw, is she not going to allow me to have any fun?_

_Just kidding, _of course_._

"—_for the next two weeks," she continues. Always the manipulative one, Blair, "I'll…" the words seem to come out after a pause, "Marry you. If not," Boy, do I know the stakes on me, "You," her index finger jams on my chest—just like old times, "Stay out of my life."_

* * *

"Uh, no, you're kidding me, right?"

If that wasn't Serena van der Woodsen's light, cheery voice reaching my ears, I'd love to karate-chop the asker.

No, this is not funny.

Serena gives that carefree little laugh of hers, hands fumbling with her perfect blonde hair before sitting down beside me on the sofa.

"You mean Chuck, _Chuck_ Bass, my ex-stepbrother." I hate it when people emphasize. Especially with _that_ name. "Wants to marry you?" Serena repeats, processing in the information I'd just briefed her minutes ago when texted to visit the Waldorf's for a Chuck emergency discussion.

I scoff. "Well, not necessarily—"

_Needs _to marry me is more like it.

"And you've asked him to prove his love?" she continues with a smile, arms around me. "Blair," I know she's up to something with that tone and the twinkle in her eyes, "Have you been watching Audrey Hepburn movies again? You know Chuck's not Prince Charming."

"It should be challenging for him, then," I grin, Serena clasping her hands together, glad to be in on the conspiracy—ha. "And fun, too. I mean, what have I got to lose?"

* * *

I'm too lost for words.

This horrifically pretty French girl sitting next to me—within a touching distance, _of course_—is going to be my personal assistant for the next three weeks?

"_Oui_," she confirms, "I'm Aimée, an intern, just moved in here—"

Carefully and gentle as I've done with most of my girls, I jerk her chin up so I could get a better look at those blue sapphires that are her eyes, saying in my best husky voice, "Aimee, just wonderfully like your name, 'loved,' isn't it? Well, with me, you definitely _will_ be."

But darn, she pulls away with a polite grin. "You know French—"

"The language of love, chéri," I return her grin, "How could I not know?"

Aimée gives a small little laugh. "Then, I'll…see you tomorrow, Monsieur Bass," she starts to leave, making her way to the door and ignoring the close space between us completely, "You can show me how things are done around here, then we can get going with our jobs."

I can promise you they're going to be the most _interesting_ tasks…

As she turns on the doorknob, I call, "And Aimée?"

She spins around, "Yes, Monsieur," putting her Gucci coat on.

"Just call me Chuck. Chuck Bass."

**A/N: Short, yes. Lots of Blair/Chuck scenes coming….YES!**

**Jan 5, Jan 5, D'Day, people! :)**

**Thanks to all of you for everything,**

**Your ever humble fanfic writer:)**


	4. Realize

There are some words marked 'unspeakable,' for Upper East Siders. 'Gossip,' for instance. Well, for those unprivileged it means fresh news, hot off the press, rumors to be shared and secrets to be recoded.

But for those always featured on Gossip Girl's blog, it's a whole different story.

_GOSSIPGIRL: Spotted. A fancy French coquette stepping into the New York Palace, and coming out with Chuck Bass. Hands Linked. Lips? Further Reports await. Loyal no longer, Mr. Bass? Hope you'd have a good excuse for your fiancée, C. _

"Oops. Oh. Ow!"

I screech clumsily (ever heard of a better excuse for rolling over your phone?) And the stupid ringing…ow. (What could Gossip Girl possibly have for me at this hour?)

It's only brunch time, for God's sake.

Sleepily and groggily—was up last night going over the Save the Planet Benefit with Crazy Mom (who still insisted I invite my 'so-called,' fiancée, Chuck)—I help myself to half sit up on the bed, grabbing and flipping out my cell.

Huh. What news?

And just before I can read the message, the cell rings. Serena.

Talk about waking up with birds chirping in the morning. This is so not my movie of the day.

"Yes, S, I'm here, what's up," I throw on my bathrobe hastily, saying a couple of greetings.

Her reply is immediate. "Oh, B, hope I didn't wake you, s'sorry."

"Nope, Gossip Girl beat you to it."

She sighed. Sigh? What could possibly make her sigh? Other than…

"Is it some Dan Humphrey miscalculation incident, that you're calling to me so early in the morning about?"

Hearing so, S laughs. A bright, airy sound. "No, Dan's fine. It's about you—"

"Me?" The rise of pitch is automatic.

"And Chuck."

"Oh God. Here we go," I touch my forehead lightly, heart preparing to depart to Mom (And here's your Mr. nice Bass…)

"Check Gossip Girl," she suggests, "I know it's kind…of…early? But the news was yesterday. Someone just send it in."

All the while, her tone rises up and down systematically. On the beat. Nervous and anxious, I could tell.

"S, nothing's wrong," I chuckle as I put on my dress, "It's probably another Chuck's drunk party or something."

"It's something…of a French coquette, B," she says, "Just thought you should know. And I thought there's something good in him."

Ah huh. I couldn't. Or will ever can. How surprising.

"French coquette?" I ask, of pretended innocence.

"Hand in hand with your man."

I roll my eyes. "If it weren't a Chuck matter, I would have praised you of your excellent ability to rhyme, but, he's not my man if he's going hand in hand with someone. But…but…but…who cares? Let him. French coquettes? There's no evidence he's cheating." This'd better be good, Blair, I told myself.

Following a gasp, there's a long pause at the other end of the line. I suppose S is looking out the window to see if it's raining amidst the summer heat.

And then she gets on. "What'd you mean? _Let him_?"

I cough. "Well, I—"

"Blair? Did he…drug you or—"

I can _never_ let her pause again. Before any unimaginable idea gets—

"No, he didn't do anything. And I haven't. To him, I mean," I explain, "It might be his colleague at work—"

"Chuck's never had any colleague, only coquettes."

"Whatever, S. I'm fine. I'm way, way fine." By this time, still sitting on my bed, I haven't gone down to Dorota's call downstairs for my late brunch. The call is way too interesting to hang up. "And the bet between Chuck and me is on, just you know, too."

She snorts at my 'too.' "What in the Upper East Side is happening to you, B?" hanging up suddenly.

Shrugging to an imaginary Serena, I jump off my bed, ready to begin my day.

All right. I'll keep an eye on him.

But don't you know? I already am.

* * *

"Mhm, don't…Monsieur Chuck…don't…I'm…"

We've just finished off a meeting, but I'd grabbed her, touching every part of her, wanting her, until we are merely two figures attached, stumbling into my dark suite.

Blind to her protests, I'm already pressing my lips to hers. Kissing her hungrily. Deeply.

"But why not, Aimee, why not?"

I ask in between kisses, taking of my clothes hurriedly.

"Because…" she hesitates, "Because…"

What happens next is what I'd hardly like to mention.

I'd wish with all my heart she wrestles free from my grip and storms off. (At least the initial kissing part would be real. And sort of a mediocre satisfaction.)

Yet her voice morphs into that of mine, echoing, ringing so clearly in the ears. "Because you've got to wake up."

Damn it.

The worst sentence I've ever heard.

My eyelids flutter open, to the sight of the woman in (not particularly of) my dream(s), wearing her sexy working style clothes, armed with a notepad and a pen, watching me on the sideline from the doorway.

Um. Ahem.

"I see you've woken up," she greets me, smiling, "Let's get to today's agenda, shall we?"

I'm too busy staring at her (mouth) to notice.

Really, is _that _all I think about?

See, since the day she came in here, I thought I'd—get some (you know my motto: seal the deal, tape that ass.) Yes, I'm bind to Blair's bet. I _am._

I love her.

As so do other women to me.

Being with a gorgeous one all the time, everywhere, even in the morning, and not able to lift a finger on her is weakening my hold on the bet. Whenever I 'begin,' any prologues, she would 'go off,' somewhere else. No kissing. No lips. No hands. (There was one brief moment, though, yesterday's morning.) No embracing.

This is getting too much tempting.

"Monsieur?" her accented voice lifts me from my private guilt world, "Chuck?"

"Uh, yes," I slide off the bed, quite unceremoniously, "Do begin. Wherelse have I got to go on this dreary…ah…"

"Wednesday?" she offers, clicking her pen and cocking her eye at me.

Wednesday. Only half a week's passed? I swear silently, mouth ahead of my heart. "We could do something…a little more…thought-provoking, you know."

A curl at the corner of her lips. "_Thought-provoking?_ Please, _Monsieur,_" in her breathless voice.

I try asserting my eyesight. Seems like, at that exact moment, she unbuttons one of her top jacket buttons, revealing her tank top.

As she has always done with me. Luring me in for nothing.

"You've got the Wall Street Briefings, Stockholders' meeting," she rattles off, pen trailing down the list (blah, blah, blah), "And Miss Blair's Save the Planet Party."

My ears perk up at that. Finally a chance to 'meet' Blair again.

This time I can so show my love.

Not in any perverse ways, of course.

And, before I can continue with my thoughts, my cell rings…

"Chuck? It's Blair. We need to talk."

**A/N: I'm back. After a longer-than-Gossip-Girl-hiatus break. **

**Been thinking…**

**Thank you so much…for all your stopping by, reading, and, especially reviewing,**

**Let me know if you like it,**

**Lots of love and peace out, **

**(Gossip Girl rocks…)**

**Your ever humble fanfic writer, xoxo…**


	5. Reappearance

Upper East Side, in a way, is society's open-air, life's high school. Though couples openly have affairs with each other (and are widely discussed, especially on Gossip Girl's blogs), very few 'make it official, seriously' at social gatherings.

Gossip Girl's most memorable moments include: It Girl Serena van der Woodsen and her on-and-off artist-slash-writer boyfriend, Brooklyn 'Lonely Boy,' Dan Humphrey, both of whom show up pretty frequently at parties and balls, sweetening up the atmospheres during the 'on' moments and spilling tears the others; UES's Blair 'Queen Bee,' Waldorf and her (regrettable) ex (but still quite notable and a classic with wide family connections among the New York elites), girls' target crush, UES's Nathaniel 'King Nate,' Archibald, both of whom, separated by UES's official playboy and underage drinker, Charles 'Chuck,' Bass, retain a small possibility of getting back together.

The only exclusion from our list, perhaps, is that brief period when Queen Bee 'steps down,' to the Bass, a secret union, secretly formed, secretly broken, and secretly preserved by secret attempts at getting back together, to a reunion Nate Archibald marked he, 'has never heard Chuck Bass said of to anyone.'

The secret union which has rarely gone public—interrupted by tragic moments of Bart Bass's death, ironically a magnet attracting the unlikely couple back again.

As far as Chuck Bass's concerned, the date has been made, the appearance planned, and her dress and his tux chosen to match. What's the surprise?

* * *

Blair and Chuck. Chuck and Blair. The Classic Official Appearance.

Since the age of Dating An Archibald, appearing in public with another Upper East Sider has never been excruciating to this degree, noting that particular person to be Chuck Bass.

I'll admit I have (no, wait, am _forced_ to) given in to Mom and phoned him. Been grudgingly choosing dresses this morning, however.

"It has to match, Blair," advices my designer mother, "You're appearing together, that's the point."

Thanks so much, Mom, for never commenting on even one of my life necessities other than dresses.

Together. Ugh…disgusting thoughts.

Disrupting my perfect rendition of a dream…of a world _without_ Chuck Basses.

* * *

Usually I stand opposing to the Fates' mingling with my life threads, but I can't say how much grateful I am for this once.

The cell ringing in the morning is the first peculiar event on the list, to clarify. And it's who else but Blair.

"Chuck? It's Blair. We need to talk."

As much as I despise those four words, I find myself answering back. "About what, Waldorf?"

There's a huff as she rapidly recites, in a matter-of-fact tone, as if addressing a weather report, "The Party. You're going as my date. And no one else's. Just because Eleanor said so, though." The last sentence's speed seems to increase by the max.

Even more surprising is the afterwards abrupt _click._

She's hung up without giving me a chance to disagree. (Like I would. There's always a possibility of—_oh_, you know _me._)

"Aimee," I call, my little French doll snapping to attention from her reading of my schedule (or is it hers?) "Hand me the party invitation."

She gives me a black card with white lettering.

_You are cordially _(I hope she means it. Which means she most likely does not.) _invited to:_

_Save the Planet Party _(What else is she going to come up with? Soon we'll be saving practically every _creature_ on Earth, and, maybe, the butterflies.)

_Hosted by Blair Waldorf _

_Dress Code: Upper East Side Fashion _

_Bring: Candles! It's an Earth Hour party—lights off! Find your date before lights on at midnight. _(Hmm. Do I detect a plot similar to that of the masked ball last year? No, not at all.)

_Reminder: Bring this glow-in-the-dark _(Okay, cool.)_ invitation or else you will not be permitted entrance. _

"So?" Aimee asks, hands on her hips, as I flip back my cell again, "Anything I should know?"

Grinning, I say, "Let's get to it."

Save the Earth _and _tape that ass, baby.

**A/N: Lights off! Let's see what's up next… **

**Thank YOU's (yes, you there, you here, you everywhere) for ALL your support, clicks, reads, hits, and reviews,**

**Much xoxo,**

**Your ever humble fanfic writer :)**


	6. Reconcile

Clichés…a bunch of overused phrases. Love is this…love is that…

In my years, I have seen nothing less and nothing more of the so-called 'classic' verses, all of which are too doubtful even to be true.

Take my best friend, for instance, a perfect picture of someone hopelessly and unreasonably…in love.

While we were getting ready—a _huge_ deal—for the party at my place, Serena jabbers hopelessly continously about her Brooklyn boy, whom she just had a date with this morning.

"You know what he said to me?" she asked while twirling in front of the mirror in her new dress. One doesn't have to pass Relationship 101 to know she's playing the old pay-attention-to-me-rhetorical-question. "He's too funny to be true."

Too funny to be true. You'd only use that phrase when you're either hopeless _or_ desperate, and Serena was but a combination of both.

"How so, may I ask?" True, what else could a best friend say?

She gives a model signature Serena smile. "He asks, "How am I suppose to dress for a party where the lights are going to be off anyway?" Isn't that the funniest thing you—"

Oh, God. Please don't bore me with this…

Go ahead, by the way, if you have ever wanted to blame me for being hypocritical. You don't know what hits you in love.

"Then tell him to dress in whatever he usually does and _see,_" I undress down to my comfortable bathrobe, simply sitting on the bed, watching her.

Serena sits down beside me. "Anything on your mind? You seemed pretty tense."

Anything on my mind? Too many to mention! Especially a certain appearance with C. Yes, I'm hosting this party. Yes, I'm definitely going.

And yes, I am so looking forward to the event.

* * *

Disco lights shining from every corner, the latest singles of contemporary music blare clamorously from the booming loudspeakers.

Add in a crowd of overdressed upper eastsiders and you've got Blair Waldorf's party.

And I thought this generous use of the Earth's energy was supposed to save the planet itself.

Rushing through the clump of dancing people, I notice the posterboy of boyfriend-dom, best friend Nate Archibald with his half-a-year girlfriend Vanessa Abrams having drinks and chit-chats at the bar.

What a sight.

If some people were actually capable of maintaining relationships, whatever went wrong with Blair and me? And this excruciating love-hate relationship we have?

What's wrong…with us?

Right behind them, thank God, there sits Blair, dressed in a ebony dress, playing with her martini absentmindedly.

"Hey, long time no see," I turn to her in greeting, settling down on a nearby stool to order my evening Scotch.

"Oh, _hi_, I'd rather wait a long time not to see you at all," she replies in a pretendous surprised tone, taking a sip from her drink.

I chuckle. "Playing with words today, are we, Waldorf?"

Blair turns again, giving me what seems like half a smile. "Well, when have we never?" Pause. "Thank you—" I start to smile back, when she waves her left hand no, "—from _my dear mother_, for coming, anyway. And don't forget the rules. Lights will be off in a second. See you then. If I ever will. Or if you can find me, that is."

We share no more words after her long monotonous speech, and, right the moment I decide order another drink, Blair clicks her fingers.

Blackout.

The entire house's gasps escalate to excited whispers and anxious footsteps. I reach for the stool where she was previously sitting and find it empty. Gone so fast, huh, girl?

There is nothing to do but to search. As it happens, Blair purposely has chosen the New York building I have never entered before. (Looks like I'm not the only bad seed in the family.)

I hurry up and down the stairs, checking rooms, calling names…then remember the unique smell of her perfume…

* * *

They say absence makes the heart grow fonder, but with _him_, absence almost always shatter _my_ heart.

Waiting for him in Tuscany…waiting for him at the lawyer's…and waiting for him even now.

Second by second tick by, and yet, there's no visible sign of his shadow.

Where (the hell) is he?

Wait, wait. Where did that thought come from? I am _not _waiting for him to come. I am waiting for him _not_ to come. Oh, thoughts, _please do_ get back in your places.

No more fooling myself—

!!!

And probably no more waiting for this, for him to show up. If he doesn't…

Who cares? I'm not staying in this solidary confinement another minute.

11:59, beeps my mobile as I step into (what appears to be, in the dark) the building's grand foyer.

Before I can stop myself, the lights go on, everyone in the room blinking, startled as if woken up from a dazed spell.

An even more dazzling sight that stops me in my tracks is the spotlight the DJ has helpfully shone on a couple in the center of the dance floor, locked in the middle of a kiss and an embrace…the back of an all-too-familiar Upper East Sider…

Spotted: C and his French coquette. K-I-S-S-I-N-G. I thought the rules were set, B?

* * *

"New York's suddenly having showers today. Been raining like crazy since two. Be careful for those of you lurking outside without an umbrella! But that's what we call NYC-Blues, baby."

Oh, _shut up, you stupid _TV SCREEN.

Talk about all the ridiculous things love makes you do.

I'm out running through the streets, friggin' soaking wet. In the rain. Splashing on water puddles in my patent leather shoes.

But I don't even care.

Dirtying myself, right then, seems to be the least of my worries. Scrambling for something…someone…somewhere…anything, anything at all. To save me.

'Cause I fucked up. Big time.

Which has, a second ago, apparently happened without my acknowledgement.

There wasn't a high-pitched scream—like that time some girl in kindergarten stole her first Marc Jacobs tote—or an expected accusing tone.

No, Blair Waldorf left her own party in quiet footsteps. Sneaking away. From me. From everyone she knows. And the humilation chasing after her. Especially from…

I perked up at the sound of her high heels against the floor, detaching myself mid-kiss. Seeing, for the first time, who my real kissing partner was.

"But—"

Aqua eyes, not the familiar chocolate shades, locked with mine, the thin French lips breaking out into a smile.

"You're not—"

She nodded.

"But I thought—"

Her hand slipped away from mine, weighted with guilt.

"Aimee?" I finally managed to utter out her name, "What are you doing here? And—the—the footsteps?"

The world ceased to spin. The seconds froze. People stopped in their tracks. Her words hung in the air, echoing in my ears. A knife, cutting through the cold air.

"It's Miss Blair. She's gone out, but no one can say they haven't heard her soft sobbing."

Soft sobbing? Hear her soft sobbing? Her? Miss Blair?

My Blair.

Shit. What the hell have I done?

"I'm sorry," Aimee added to her sentence quickly at my silent response of her words. But I couldn't care less. Her mouth was moving, but all I could hear was silence.

And the words in my head. Spinning.

I have to find Blair.

_After you've done what you did? _Shouted back my stupid mind.

I have to tell her everything.

_What, that you love her? Didn't you say that already? _

I'm wrong, okay? I'm wrong. I'm a coward in denial. A weakling in—

_God. Do me a favor, will you? Spare your usual degrading self-doubts and get the girl, Bass. _

I tune out from the mind, which abruptly has gone off in a self-destruction mode, hurrying as far out of the building as my shoes could take me.

The very same shoes I'm trudging through the New York streets with.

Ironically, I find Blair in her favorite spot in Central Park. By the ducks' pond. She sits alone on a wooden bench, completely immune to the heavy rain.

I should have known better (to bring an umbrella).

And forget my shoes, or the forgottten umbrellas. I don't need a single thing to give Blair right now.

Words are my only weapon.

"Hey," I clear my throat, watching her turn around and surreptitiously wiping the tears leaking from the corners of her eyes.

"What do you want?" her voice is blunt and direct, not bothering to hide the evident sourness.

Oh, great. What excuses have you prepared to say, Chuck?

Nothing.

"I'm sorry for—"

I don't have a chance to finish my sentence, for Blair immediately cuts me off, taking her moment.

"For what happened? For you, after a bet with me, kissing some girl—especially a girl I'd hired to spy on you?"

I'm sorry, but…WHAT?

Um, I should have seen this coming. It was this close on the scale of obvious-ity (if such a word exists).

For a split second, hand clasping over her mouth, Blair realizes the confidential piece of information she has unknowingly gives me in her dejected outburst.

"You," I say my words slowly, emphasizing each syllable, "Hired a girl. To spy on me, Blair? Is that what you just said?"

And _that_ is the most breathtaking epiphany in the whole day.

She. Didn't. Trust. Me.

Blair simply blinks, spitting out her words in a rapid, 'let's-not-get-into-this' voice. "Yes, I did. But god knows it'd turned out like this on you—on us—on me…!"

Another possible implied meaning: she still loves me.

No, I'm not getting over the top.

"Blair," I call her again. She stands up, preparing to leave.

"What? I thought I'm done. We're done. I didn't trust you, and, after today, you probably won't trust me."

I reach for her hand first, and, this time, she doesn't let go.

"Do you still love me?" I know it's damn cliché, but I finally and definitely have to ask her.

Blair turns back, hand yet in my grip. "I did, or at least I thought I did. Didn't even know then if it was love. _You_ crushed my hopes and dreams. I wasn't sure and I can't have known with you, being who you are."

"Forget the girl, Blair, forget anyone out there at all," I say, looking into her eyes. "It doesn't matter. It's just us now. Sorting ourselves out. And you know you love me, Blair, you know you do."

One impossible thing happens: Blair actually smiles as I gently wipe the tears at her cheeks.

"I'm just a coward in denial," I continue. Once I start, it has to all come out. "And no matter how many girls you hired, I still love you. I promise. Even after the "proof" you so helpfully sent me."

The sky seems to agree with me for a moment, pouring down more rain.

This time Blair laughs softly, unable to find further excuses for her "proof" that I actually love her.

"I hate you being right, Bass."

At least she's honest.

* * *

"I hate the butterflies being right, Waldorf," he says, grinning.

We're both standing there, talking, in Central Park, soaking wet like maniacs.

But I don't even care.

"I love you," I reply, savouring the words.

Love, and to be loved in return.

His face lights up. "I love you, too, and it's not just for the money. I wouldn't have run in the rain to follow you all this way. If not for the crazy—"

Laughing once more, I throw my arms around him and we kiss. A long, lingering kiss in the rain.

All those love cliché's? I think I might finally understand.

_Love is not winning or losing. Any bets. _

His arms around me, the warm feelings inside. The butterflies.

_Love is absurd. Makes you insensible and light-headed as hell._

The sweetness of the kiss. The taste of those three little words I've longed for.

Chuck breaks the kiss gently, kneeling down and pulling out from his suit's pocket what I think isn't—

Is that…a ring?

With a little pitter-patter, the rain calms, as if giving Chuck a moment for his words.

"I know it's been a long time since I first asked you this," he says, holding out the ring and staring at my puzzled face.

"But Blair Cornelia Waldorf, will you marry me?"


	7. The Not Quite Resolution

_Spotted: Mother Chucker and Queen B smooching in Central Park. Aw, how sweet. The question is: are we missing something? Where's that cute coquette of yours, C? _

Before I can answer, our phones beep at the same time. Probably Gossip Girl. I can hardly let her ruin our lives anymore. I'm still having way too much fun with it.

"Life's a liar," I say, taking a breath at Chuck's hopeful face. He chuckles. "And she's a bitch. But I guess I'll say yes."

He slips the ring onto my finger. "That," he remarks, "Have got to be the most weirded out response to a wedding proposal I've ever heard."

The ring, adorned with a little piece of diamond, glitters in the sunlight.

The weather's clearing up now.

"And one more thing," I kiss him lightly on the lips. "How on earth did you end up with her there?"

"Her?" Chuck asks innocently, arms around my waist. "What, you mean Aimee?"

I play with my ring, voice of pretended infuriation. "_Of course_ I mean Aimee, who else could it be, you mother chucker?" he grins at the nickname.

"She smelled of the perfume you used today." We simply look at each other. "I thought it was you. Honestly."

"Whoever gave her that perfume, anyway?"

"I did."

Untangling myself from Chuck's embrace, I turn around to find Serena van der Woodsen, graceful as always, strolling into Central Park, Brooklyn Boy (What is _he_ doing here!?) following her like a lovesick puppy.

As much as I love my best friend, her choice in guys and brooding artists pretty much are—ugh.

"Serena?" we chorus.

She smiles. "I knew there was something fishy going on with you letting Chuck fool around with his secretary, so I did a little research. Dan here has helped me a lot."

Oh, so now I'm saying thank you to a Daniel Humphrey for my happily-ever-after?

Life. Do you see where you're going?? Tell me as soon as you do, 'cause I'm falling off this edge.

It's constantly changing.

Behind me, Chuck almost gives his 'sister' a smirk, but stops himself in time.

Serena continues. "I thought it's about time, you guys," holding my and Chuck's hand on each of hers, "And Aimee has agreed to, well, take part in this plan."

"So you're hiring her _after _me?" I ask. God, my life is getting more complicated every second.

Dan steps up. His part? He has a say, in my life plans?

_Yippee._

"See how simple it would've been if you two just admit it?" Serena laughs at his sentence, the couple holding hands happily.

I glance at Chuck, who's unexpectedly grinning. "Whatever, we've said our pieces, and it's done."

"And may I introduce to you, my Upper East Siders," Chuck holds my ringed hand up for Serena to see proudly, I blushing. "The Mrs. Bass-to-be."

* * *

The ceremony was plain and simple, limited to invited guests and press. Blair didn't want much publicity, and neither did I.

Have to say it was quite a surprise for Serena to 'quick-start' my love life. Who would have thought her, of all people?

Yes, I'm thankful. I am. I wouldn't have made it today without our bridesmaid and our best man, Nate Archibald.

Or—I'm wondering why I'm even saying this—Aimee.

Dressed to kill in black, Aimee tips her signature Burberry hat to Blair and me in a subtle salute.

"_Mon travail ici est fait_," are her last words, before the French model leaves out of sight, never to be seen again.

My work is here done.

I can't have agreed with her more.

**A/N: Love and thanks,**

**(This is NOT ending yet.) :P**

**Xoxo forever,**

**Your ever humble fanfic writer :)**


	8. Revived

"Morning, Mrs. Bass."

Chuck's mellow, husky voice rings at my ears (Mhm, bliss), at the same time as his mouth captures mine, kissing good morning.

"Morning," I open my eyes, greeting him with a smile. We're still in bed, undressed, save for a bathrobe in my case, in Chuck's suite at the Palace. "_Mr._ Bass."

And then it dawns on me. "We're married. I can't believe—"

Chuck scrutinizes me in an amused way, his voice mischievous. "Yes, right you are, love. Aren't you like this every morning? I can remind you of last night, though, if you'd like to—"

And to my tingling pleasure and utmost annoyance, he proceeds to nuzzle my neck, snuggling in closer.

I roll my eyes, reciting semi-seriously. "Chuck, just because I'm yours doesn't mean you can rightfully distract me with your—_darn it_—addictive touches."

He chuckles softly, satisfied. "Aw. 'I'm yours,' I like it. Nicest thing I've ever heard you say. Well, besides 'I love you.'" The last sentence is added hastily, as if I'm carefully correcting his every word.

All I can manage in response to his—God, my _husband's_—wicked, kiss-me-or-be-serious behaviors are a I'm-giving-up sigh and my bossy tone of: "Aren't you even paying attention to what I'm saying?"

Now Chuck pouts, resembling a selfish child demanding his toy.

Grr. Can't I ever be serious with him again?

"Was it or was it not worth it marrying you, after all?" I say, hands on my hips. "Merging our families' possessions and moving in with you?"

A light kiss lands on my nose. "Best investment," he comments, grinning, "'Cause you've got me."

**A/N: Just a little snippet.**

**M'busily juggling things at once~ (smiles)**

**Love and thanks, xoxo,**

**Your ever humble fanfic writer :)  
**


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